


Speak Again

by I_Am_Terra



Series: Hold your tongue [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk John, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-13 04:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Am_Terra/pseuds/I_Am_Terra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has gotten married to Mary. Sherlock still doesn't want to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak Again

"Oh Sherlock... Look at you... Please let me call a doctor." Mrs Hudson was fussing over Sherlock, pacing the room in small quick steps and throwing worried looks at the figure huddled up in the leather chair.

"Never." Sherlock hissed as he turned his head away from Mrs Hudson. He was feeling grumpy and stubborn. Furthermore, Sherlock hated having strangers examine him, observe him and ask him strange questions. That was _his_ job.

"Sherlock... You've been lying around for three days now with neither food nor drink!"

"And that's clearly normal for me." Sherlock replied with contempt. Such excessive attention was grossly unnecessary. Even though Sherlock knew how troublesome of a tenant he is, he was not in the mood for one of Mrs Hudson's lectures on health and cleanliness.

"Sherlock! This will not do. You need a doctor!" Mrs Hudson was getting annoyed. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath at those words. He did need a doctor. But he didn't need just any doctor. He needed one particular doctor. His special doctor. Doctor John Watson.

As if reading his mind, Mrs Hudson said, "If you mind every other doctor, I'm sure you'll allow John to see to you."

Sherlock rolled around so that he was turned away from Mrs Hudson. Sherlock lay curled up on the recesses of his armchair, his head on the arm rest, lying sideways in the soft leather. After a moment of silence, Mrs Hudson sighed and left Sherlock to his own devices. It was already late at night; Sherlock knew that Mrs Hudson would only call John the next morning.

Sherlock turned around again and peered at the armchair opposite his. It was empty. Sherlock stared at the empty chair, his heart felt equally empty. Since the wedding, he felt as if his heart had been hollowed out. The heart previously cast out of hard granite has been replaced by a brittle glass replica. Sherlock could feel how delicate his heart was at the moment, as if the feather-like touch of a finger would cause it to shatter into crystalline shards. Despite all the pain, despite all the agony, despite all the regret, Sherlock's face was a cold mask. He had worn that same mask during John's wedding ceremony. He didn't want his unhappiness to ruin John's happiness. John had smiled so blissfully, arms wrapped around the waist of his petite wife, the two talking in hushed tones. They looked so intimate. So happy with each other’s presence. _This was what John and I used to look like together._

Gaze still fixed on John's dusty arm chair, Sherlock's bright eyes dimmed as he retreated into his mind palace. He was in another version of the familiar sitting room, except that in this version, John was always sitting there waiting for him. John was sitting in the arm chair opposite his, looking sternly at Sherlock and talking about the solar system. He was talking about dull facts that couldn't mean more to Sherlock. He was talking about how the Earth revolved around the Sun. _Just like how John used to revolve around me._ Sherlock glanced fondly at the John in his arm chair. _His_ John in _the_ armchair. His glance was so tender. So warm. So affectionate. It was almost loving. He had never dared to give John that glance in real life. He knew he had come close, but never could bring himself to show such kind emotions. Love is a disadvantage, and the way it tormented him, tortured him and burnt him at that moment fully supported this fact. Sherlock regretted how he had taken John for granted. He knew that his fake suicide had broken John. Broken John to the point that he could no longer stay in 221B Baker Street. Broken John to the point that he had changed his appearance. Broken John to the point that he had to look for another to make him whole again. Sherlock could see John grasping desperately at the first person to show him care and concern. Sherlock shook his head. That wasn't right. Only _he_ could make John whole again. Only _he_ was worthy of healing John. Only _he_. And yet. Yet this woman, this dull cat-lover was the one to soothe John, to rebuild John. What was she but a regular woman? How was she even comparable to Sherlock? How could John juxtapose the two, and choose the one so obviously less worthy? And yet. Yet the woman was the one to steal John away.

John had left. John had moved out of Baker Street in favour of living in a cosy apartment with his wife, the unworthy woman. _Why isn’t his wife me?_ Sherlock's thoughts drifted to the dainty blond John had chosen over him. He felt a viscous, dark jealousy flow into his heart. Perhaps it was this jealousy that caused Sherlock to feel so apprehensive towards the otherwise sweet little lady. _She cannot be trusted_ , his mind had whispered to him repeatedly. He could not believe that. Not when his mind was ruled by his breaking heart. Not when he can't keep his hatred away from his thoughts. But she was the reason John had left, she threatened their friendship, their bond, their undeniable affinity for each other. Sherlock had every right to be wary of the woman who prevented John from returning to him. Sherlock didn't understand why he was so welcome to the idea of John’s company. He had lived alone for so long, why did solitude seem so agonizing now? Sherlock could not understand, but the one thing he understood was that he yearned for John to return. But John didn't appear inclined to return to Sherlock's outstretched arms. Sherlock could feel tears pool up in his eyes, threatening to spill over from the rim. Sherlock never cried. Sherlock couldn't allow himself to succumb to such mundane emotions. _Never._ Sherlock blinked back tears and laid there. He was just a limp and useless lump.

Sherlock was still steeped in regret (an emotion he so rarely experienced) when he heard a light step on the stairs. Sherlock's eyes immediately lit up. _John?_ He craned his neck to get a better view. But as the steps grew louder, Sherlock realised that the steps were too soft to be that of a man. It was Mrs Hudson. _I’m a fool._ Sherlock's eyes dimmed again as he huddled closer to himself.

Once Mrs Hudson reached the top of the staircase, she began fussing over Sherlock again. "Oh Sherlock... I'm sorry for getting angry just now... I brought you some tea and cookies, you should try some. I specially made the cookies with..." The elder lady talked incessantly. The lump on the leather armchair did not make a sound. The lump did not even look up. Mrs Hudson stopped talking and regarded the figure sympathetically, sighed, then descended the stairs again. Sherlock knew that he should at least let Mrs Hudson know that he was alright, but he couldn't bring himself to face the reality. The reality that Mrs Hudson was the only other person left in the small apartment. The reality that John was no longer his flatmate. The reality that John had left on his own accord.

It was getting late, a fire (which Mrs Hudson had so kindly lighted) burning in the fireplace kept the sitting room warm. The cold alabaster statue in the arm chair remained unmoved. The heat from the fire could not melt Sherlock's frozen heart; the biting cold caused his heart to ache. Sherlock thought of John again and didn't hear when the front door was opened and then clicked closed. Only when Mrs Hudson's voice drifted into the sitting room did Sherlock realise that another presence was in the small apartment.

"Oh! John, what are you doing here at this hour? Shouldn't you be home?" _John...? Did she say John? Is John here? Oh God._ Sherlock's heart fluttered in his chest, Sherlock's mind went blank and he didn't know what to do. The feeling so foreign, he had only felt it a few times when John had stood too close to him in the past.

"Wha... What do you mean home? I know that this is my home, Mrs Hudson! Now move aside!" Sherlock's heart clenched at the sound of John's voice. _Christ, John is here._ Sherlock immediately leapt from his sit and sat up straight to look presentable. _Don't need John worrying about me now that he is enjoying conjugal bliss._ John's words were slurred and he was making a ruckus. Sherlock knew John well enough to know that John was drunk.

Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson try to stop John from climbing up the stairs. But she was no match for John. Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson calling out for John to stop as he took a wobbly step up the stairs. _John is definitely drunk._ Sherlock felt somewhat comforted that in such an intoxicated state, John recognized Baker Street as his home instead of the apartment he shared with Mrs Watson.

Sherlock heard Mrs Hudson sigh (again... Mrs Hudson sure is a long-suffering landlady) and leave the apartment with a bang of the front door before Sherlock saw John's greying blond hair rise up from the bottom of the steps. John's hair was unkempt, far from the neat military way he usually kept it. John swayed from side to side as he climbed up the steps one by one, the sound of his boots on the wooden steps echoed throughout the sitting room. As John reached the last step, he lost his balance and doubled over.

Sherlock heard himself shout John's name. He sprang forward with the reflexes and agility of an athlete; one would never believe he had been a languid lump a few moments ago. Sherlock still wore that cold mask even though he was filled with worry. He bolstered John and led him to the empty arm chair. _What occasion induced John to drink so much?_ Sherlock studied the shorter man carefully. A few new wrinkles had formed around the corner of John's eyes. John had also developed eye-bags and he looked exhausted. _No, the signs show that he drank because he was miserable, not because he was at a party._ A fiery rage burnt in Sherlock's chest. He wanted to find whoever made John so weary. He would ferret out their identities, he would track them down and he would make their lives miserable for ever hurting his John.

"Wacha looking at, Sherlock...?" Sherlock realised he was stooped over John, staring to his eyes. John's eyes were a deep blue. The blue looked so inviting, like the blue of the warmest part of the ocean where the sunlight could pierce through, the part of the ocean where waves nudged at you gently, where translucent jellyfish fluttered about like fairies in the wind. The part of the ocean where Sherlock wanted to soak in forever.

When John saw that Sherlock didn't answer, he began blabbering mindlessly. "I thought my occasional row with you were bad. Ohhhh God, you should see Mary." At the mention of Mary's name, Sherlock balked. John didn't notice (as usual) and continued rambling. "I mean I have to go to the clinic to work every day, what's so difficult about her buying the jam? I really hate it when we're out of jam. You know how important jam is to me, don't you? I would put jam in my tea if it didn't sound so ridiculous. I can't live a day without my jam and then she tells me to wait for a few days because she has stomach cramps. Heck, I used to have a limp and I still went out to get jam."

Sherlock smiled at John's words. Trust John to get into an argument over jam. John was still blabbering on, oblivious to the fact that Sherlock was still looming over him, their faces but a few inches apart. Sherlock looked into those sincere blue eyes again and before he knew what he was doing, he had leant in towards John.

"We can argue but why would she throw thi-" John was cut off mid-sentence as Sherlock placed his lips on John's. The kiss was chaste. It was but a peck on John's pink lips. So soft. So gentle. So quick. Sherlock's thoughts scattered like a disturbed flock, but he involuntarily relished the feeling of John's lips on his.

"Mmmmmmm... Aren't you gorgeous?" John's cheeks were flushed. Either from the alcohol or the kiss, Sherlock could not ascertain. Sherlock could deduce so much about John, yet there were always things he could not even guess, and that was what got him so addicted to John.

When Sherlock's mind finally processed those words, he focused his gaze on John. Eyes wide with surprise. His eye met John's ardent gaze. It was filled with so much love, so much respect, so much contrition; Sherlock could feel his insides turn to liquid as he met that warm gaze.

"... Did you just say that I'm..." Sherlock whispered slowly. His lips suddenly felt unbearably dry and stiff.

"Gorgeous." John cut in, giving Sherlock a winsome grin.

"Desirable?" Sherlock finished. He knew of his own feelings for John, the nature of John's feelings for him though, had always been a mystery. The way John whispered soft nothings to beautiful women, and obtained important somethings in return. The way John continually insulted him without a second thought. Sherlock could not even imagine John accepting his feelings, much less returning them. He knew that the look in his eyes betrayed everything. His uncertainty, his vulnerability, his fear of rejection. Sherlock was skilled at masking his emotions, but John, John always made his face so expressive.

"Sherlock, do you know where I expect to wake up at every time I'm drunk?" John regarded Sherlock, smiling kindly.

"In prison?" The answer was immediate in Sherlock's rational mind.

"No - Yes - I - No- I mean, yes. I expect to wake in prison. I _want_ to wake up in your bedroom, Sherlock." Though John stammered from his drunkenness, Sherlock knew exactly what John was alluding to. He could do nothing but stare at the blond doctor. _John wants me. Does John really find me... desirable?_ Sherlock had long ago deduced that John was fond of him, but he had always assumed it to be a brotherly love. Sherlock had always wished for his forbidden feelings to be returned, but he had never dared to hope.

John's smile did not leave his face as he looked down for a brief moment, and then suddenly, he pulled Sherlock in for another kiss. One hand rested gently on Sherlock's strong shoulder, the other hand drifted slowly up to caress Sherlock's raven curls cascading down his face. Sherlock gasped as John pulled lightly on a tuff of hair. Immediately, he felt John's tongue push in his mouth, and he dared to taste John's whiskey flavoured tongue. It tasted overwhelmingly of whisky, but it also tasted of something faintly sweet-sour. Something faintly familiar. Sherlock smiled to himself in the kiss as he recognized the taste. _Jam._

In his palpable joy, Sherlock deepened the kiss and ran his tongue along John's lower lip. The only person he ever wanted in the world was there right in front of him, wanting him (him being Sherlock) the same way he wanted him (him being John), what reason did Sherlock have to continue inhibiting himself? If he had to choose, Sherlock would choose passionate abandon over all else. The fire in the fireplace burned fiercely, a fervent orange. The passion in Sherlock's heart burnt equally fiercely. So fierce that Sherlock forgot to breath. Sherlock did not mind, for in that moment, oxygen was no longer necessary to him. Only when he saw bright little pin-pricks forming in front of his closed eyelids did he push John away, reluctantly. Both men were panting, swallowing large gulps of air as they attempted to catch their breaths. John was the first to recover and he brushed his fingertips lightly against Sherlock's pale cheeks. The feeling that flooded over Sherlock in response to that soft caress was one that Sherlock had never experienced before, a peculiar, warm sensation spread from his stomach upwards until it reached his cheeks. Sherlock could almost feel his cheeks turn a light rose pink, and he burrowed his face into the nape of John's neck. What was it about John's touch that could turn Sherlock Holmes, a usually fearless man, into a blushing imbecile? Sherlock could feel John's voice box vibrate as John let out a soft laugh. Sherlock felt his cheeks turn a brighter shade of pink, the burn in Sherlock's cheek was unfamiliar but not uncomfortable, yet Sherlock kept his face hidden as John ruffled Sherlock's hair. With his free hand, John clung on tightly to Sherlock. Sherlock could feel himself abandon his shyness and glow at the thought of being in John's arms, and slowly, he began licking and sucking at the sensitive skin at John's neck.

The soft sounds John made were the most appreciative praise Sherlock could receive and he began to nibble at John's jaw. As he licked a pulse point, he felt John's pulse racing on his tongue. The sensation and the taste of John's salty sweat exploded in his mouth and Sherlock's passion combusted. The red flame in the fireplace licked hungrily at the mantelpiece.

"Sherlock." John whispered softly, and Sherlock pressed his forehead into John's shoulder as he waited for John to speak. "I would like to... visit... your bedroom."

Sherlock went boneless at John's unusually deep and husky voice, and he allowed John to pull him into his own bedroom. Once inside, John pushed Sherlock onto the bed, then turned back to lock the door. When he turned around again, a devilish smile played on his lips and he let out an almost animalistic growl. Sherlock shivered when he saw that lust had laid a firm grip on his best friend, he himself was filled with desire. Nevertheless, Sherlock trembled as John padded towards him, undressing on the way. Sherlock was willing to risk it all for John, but he didn't want John's life to be ruined. He didn’t want to be the reason for John to lose his job, his wife and his tranquil life. He shouldn't take advantage of John, especially since John was in such a drunken state. Guilt washed over Sherlock and he looked down, unsure of what he should do.

“Sherlock, of course I find you desirable. Others might find you cold, rude and arrogant. But in my eyes, you are always so kind, you would not kill the vilest of criminals, you are sensitive, you were genuinely touched when I jumped up behind Moriarty and told you to run. You hide your caring nature behind that cold exterior because you have been scorned by others for you extraordinary intelligence and astute observations. But once you meet someone who unreservedly praised you, you melted and became the loyal, amiable creature you actually are.”

John’s voice trembled with emotion as he spoke, and at those words, Sherlock looked up. During his recent cases, he had missed how John exclaimed at every simple deduction he made and involuntarily praised his brilliance. Now he was slightly unaccustomed to it. He looked carefully into John’s eyes to see if there was any mockery, but all he saw was sincerity and devotion… _and arousal_. Sherlock allowed his eyes to wander downwards and he drew in a breath when he saw that John was wearing nothing but a loose undergarment.

Sherlock blinked (at least) ten times in row, before he let go of his guilt and succumbed to his desires, becoming no more than a rutting animal. _Besides, John had made it clear that he wanted me as well._ Sherlock knelt on the edge of the bed, one hand pawed at the buttons of his own shirt and the other clawed out at John.

"John..." Sherlock cooed, no longer able to control himself. His dress shirt hung open, revealing his pale chest and pink nipples.

John simply stood by the bed as Sherlock reached out to trace the contours of his collarbone, then slipped a hand down to caress his hard, muscular chest before circling one finger around his brown nipple. One hand played with the nipple as Sherlock leaned in and took the other nub in his mouth, licking and sucking at it deliberately. John's nipples hardened immediately and he moaned at the dual sensation. The moan sounded so delicious, Sherlock could not help but move his hand to the refined curve of John's back. His hand moved up John's spine vertebra by vertebra, causing goose-bumps to form on John's tanned skin. Sherlock moved his other hand to John's wrist, with his thumb drawing circles on the pulse point of John’s wrist. The shudder that ran down John’s spine was the most gratifying encouragement and Sherlock smirked as his hand drifted up John’s arm. His forefinger rested on the star burst wound on John’s shoulder and he traced the hollows of the wound with a fingernail. Sherlock’s gaze glided past John’s belly and Sherlock saw that John’s stomach pooched out slightly. _Matrimony clearly suits John; he has gained seven pounds since I last saw him._ Sherlock shoved that thought aside and continued to run his hands along John’s body. He wanted to memorise every part of John’s body, in case he never got the chance to see it again. How Sherlock hoped that the sweet moment would last forever, but he did not dare to be too sanguine. Being too hopeful could only lead to endless hopelessness.

“Sherlock.” John’s tone was urgent, pleading and Sherlock could have sworn he saw a pout forming on John's face (and Sherlock could swear he would be happy to see that expression on John’s face again). Sherlock used his hand resting on John’s back to push John forward. In response, John’s leg folded beneath him and he fell into a kneeling position on the bed.

If John was still before, he roused into action now. He quickly pushed Sherlock's dress shirt off his sturdy shoulders, the smooth fabric slid off Sherlock’s body with a soft susurration. With the same ferocity, John pushed Sherlock into a supine position onto the bed, pinning Sherlock’s arms above his head with one hand. Sherlock couldn’t decide which felt better, the velvety chiffon bedclothes beneath him, or the heat from John’s body on his chest. _Definitely the latter._ Sherlock’s breath hitched as he felt John nibble playfully at his collarbone, the heavenly sensation caused goose bumps to form on Sherlock’s sugary-white skin. And Sherlock shuddered to think of all the other things John could do to his body.

John’s mouth was still busy, leaving a trail of wet kisses down Sherlock’s torso until he reached the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. John glanced up at Sherlock, blue eyes shining in excitement as he tugged on Sherlock’s trousers mischievously. Sherlock was so bewitched by those eyes that he didn’t notice John undo his flies and pull down his trousers and his pants in one swift motion.

An elfish grin appeared on John’s face, and Sherlock thought he looked almost boyish. That façade was also immediately broken as John climbed on Sherlock’s lap, and stared at the consulting detective lying naked beneath him hungrily. Sherlock’s heart melted and then threatened to jump out of his chest when he met John’s gaze. As John’s gaze glided down Sherlock body, it seemed as if he was admiring a most priceless artwork. It looked as if John was worshiping a celestial beauty, an ethereal being, a holy creature.

“Sherlock.” John was breathless, but nonetheless his voice sounded mellow. “I have always seen an angel in you. I might even be insolent enough to say that you’re my guardian angel. You are a beautiful angel _with a shotgun._ ” John’s eyes crinkled into a coquettish smile.

As those words, Sherlock’s mind went absolutely blank, all rational thought had deserted him, and he was left staring bewildered at the enchanting creature seated on his lap.

Sherlock was still a daze when John rolled him onto his stomach. A string of words streamed out of John’s mouth as he began kneading Sherlock’s ass cheeks like they were made of soft dough. Sherlock gasped as he heard those words. John was describing (positively fawning over) Sherlock’s body in the most detailed and the most obscene way possible. Sherlock could fell a flush form on his shallow cheeks, creeping up to his cheekbones, and he closed his eyes, squirming underneath the blond doctor. Presently, Sherlock felt John climb down, push his thighs apart (to which Sherlock responded with a prompt yelp), and then use his fingers to pull Sherlock’s ass cheeks apart. Sherlock knew how nervous he was and took a big gulp to get rid of the lump in his throat. Suddenly, he felt something soft, warm and moist brush his sensitive opening. _It was John’s tongue._ It send a ripple of sensation up Sherlock’s spine and he shivered involuntarily. Sherlock almost– _almost!_ –stifled a groan as John licked a circle around the rigid muscles of the rim. Again and again, John flicked his tongue over that opening. Again and again, feeble cries emerged from Sherlock’s mouth. Even though Sherlock knew exactly who they belonged to, he would never admit that the whimpers which filled the room came from his own parted lips.

“Sherlock… I want- I want…” John hummed, his voice still low and smooth, as he prodded Sherlock’s hole with the tip of his tongue. Sherlock moaned shamelessly as a wave of pleasure swept over him. John had applied just enough pressure to leave him wishing for more. _Much more._ Sherlock tried to ask John what it was he wanted, but the haze surrounding him prevented him from uttering a word, and he could only goggle at John while making garbled noises. John chuckled at Sherlock’s reaction and reached over to the bedside table, retrieving the bottle of Vaseline sitting innocently on the table top.

Sherlock could only ogle as John removed the lid and lathered his fingers with copious amounts of petroleum jelly. _Well, that is preposterous!_ He is the celebrated Sherlock Holmes, bold, witty and intelligent; it was rather insulting that he was now made a tongue-tied nincompoop by the harmless administrations of a now retired army doctor. Sherlock endeavoured to roll around and reverse their positions, so that John’s body would be the one pressed into the mattress, with the esteemed Sherlock Holmes towering over it. He almost– _almost again!_ Sherlock gritted his teeth –managed to succeed, but John was one step ahead. He had plunged his finger into Sherlock’s pink pucker before Sherlock could fully turn over, and Sherlock slumped onto the bed with a grunt, accepting defeat. The disgraceful defeat was immediately forgotten as John began to wriggle his finger inside of Sherlock. It was uncomfortable as first, but when John’s fingertips swept past his prostrate, Sherlock felt all his senses ignite. He arched his back and burrowed his face into the pillow, tossing his head from side to side. A warm feeling had begun to build up in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach and around Sherlock’s groin, and Sherlock experienced an insatiable need as he moaned loudly. Sherlock Holmes or no, the creature writhing and gasping on the bed was definitely a tongue-tied nincompoop.

Sherlock was positively stupefied; his mind could only register the sensation of smooth fabric against his throbbing member and the wave of euphoria that washed over him every time John’s finger stoked that sweet spot inside of him. Sherlock could vaguely remember John inserting another finger into him, and then another, all the while whispering soft nothings into his ear. It was only when John removed his fingers did Sherlock snap out of that trance-like state, and Sherlock had just enough time to bite his plush lower lip to prevent an outrageous whimper escaping his lips. Sherlock was so used to having the fingers in his hole that he felt uncomfortable now that they removed. The discomfort was exacerbated by his now hard and leaking member rubbing against the creamy sheets. Sherlock could see that his member was a deep crimson, a wet patch of pre-come glistened on the sheets beneath it.

Sherlock turned his head and threw a glance over his shoulder. John was kneeling between his thighs with heavy-lidded eyes, applying Vaseline to his member. John’s member stood tall and proud and looked almost purple; seems like Sherlock was not the only one sporting a straining erection. The sight before Sherlock went straight to his groin and he groaned loudly. John looked up and sniggered, and then gripping Sherlock’s hips firmly, pulled Sherlock up onto his hands and knees.

Sherlock could not bite back the whimper this time as he felt the blunt end of John’s cock pressing against his opening. Sherlock shuddered as John slowly pushed into him, his hole engulfing the thick member is long, slow swallows until the entirety of John’s cock was buried in the heat of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock let out a long, deep moan as John began thrusting. He smirked to himself when he felt John get considerably harder (if it is even possible) at the sweet sounds he was making. John’s thrust become more insistent, rougher and more desperate with each moan he elicited from Sherlock’s cherry lips. At some point of time, John reach his hand over and began fisting Sherlock’s rock hard cock. Sherlock could feel his whole body quivering and his thighs trembling, when a feeling of pure ecstasy flooded over him and all his muscles spasmed at once. With a startled cry, he came all over the sheets. Streams of ejaculate came spewing out of him and he felt his arse clamp on and tighten around the hard cock inside of him. Sherlock collapsed onto the sheets, and in his daze, he saw a brilliant halo hovering above his head. He closed his eyes, fully content.

With a few more thrusts, John’s body stiffened as he joined Sherlock in the state of ecstasy. After a few shudders, John lay limp beside Sherlock on the bed. Before long, John's breath became long and steady as he fell into deep slumber.

 

***

 

Sherlock woke from his own snooze with a violent start. Logical thought has begun tip-toeing back into his brain and it dawned on him that he had just slept with John. He had just slept with a _married_ man. If this affair were to be publicised, John might lose his job, John could lose his freedom and most certainly, John would lose his delicate wife.

Sherlock scampered out of bed (gently, didn’t want to wake John) and collected his discarded clothing from the floor. Sherlock’s eyes were two steady grey orbs as he walked of his own bedroom. John had said he wanted to wake up in Sherlock’s bedroom, but he hadn’t mentioned that he wanted Sherlock to be in the room when he woke. In fact, there would be unnecessary complications if anyone walked in to two naked men sharing a bed. Sherlock quickly wiggled into his cloths as his expression became determined. The two of them must come up with something to conceal the events of that night.

The fire in the sitting room had diminished to a smoulder, emitting a faint golden-yellow glow every now and then.

 

***

 

“Sherlock!” Sherlock’s bedroom door banged open and John strolled out, looking agitated and confused.

Sherlock looked up from where he was sitting on the couch, a cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other. Once his gaze fell on John, he began looking as agitated and confused. John was standing in the doorway, stark naked.

“John. Do you realise you’re not wearing any cloths.” It was not a question. Sherlock meant it as a statement.

At that, John looked down at himself, then up at Sherlock, then down at himself again. His cheeks turned bright orange and he sprinted back to Sherlock’s room without a word. When he returned again, he was donned in the outfit he wore the day before, his cheeks remained somewhat orange.

“Sherlock. What happened last night? Why was I sleeping in you room? Why is there an empty bottle of Vaseline by the pillow? Why were my clothes strewn all over the floor?” John began speaking fast, his expression incredulous.

John words drew forth a most unpleasant reaction upon Sherlock’s body. His temples squeeze in on both sides, his eyes narrowed, all his hairs stood on ends, something heavy dropped in his stomach and he felt every muscle in his body go stiff and rigid. Worst of all, Sherlock felt as if he heart was being ripped out of his chest and flung across the room. Sherlock’s lips became unnaturally pale and they parted, but only a soft croak escaped. _John does not remember what happened last night._ The thought echoed like a gong in Sherlock mind. The more rational part of Sherlock’s mind almost celebrated. _Since John’s actions yesterday were all out of drunken stupor and not his desires, I can pretend that it never happened. John can go off with a clear consciences and I… I shall file this sweet memory away forever, until the end of my days…_

Sherlock managed to mutter a feasible explanation, he himself wasn’t aware of he had said, but John seemed convinced and nodded slowly.

“Well. I’ve got to make my way to the clinic now. My shift starts in fifteen minutes.” With that, and a hasty ‘goodbye’, John was out the door and Sherlock was left alone in the sitting room.

The fire from the night before had long since burnt out, and only pieces of charred wood and grey ash remained in the fireplace.

Sherlock felt something in him break as hot tears streamed down his cheeks. Sherlock never cried. But he did then for John. Sherlock could feel his heart shatter into a million crystalline shards to the soft touch of John’s harmless goodbye. The pain in his chest had increased tenfold- no, a thousandfold -now that John had given him what he so keenly desired, and then ripped them all away from him again in one fluid motion.

Sherlock reached for the cocaine bottle on the mantelpiece and closed his eyes, a crease forming between his brows.

**_Votre âme est un paysage choisi_ **

**_Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques_ **

**_Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi_ **

**_Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.*_ **

Sherlock murmured under his breath. The tears were endless. A silent plea for John to stay. A silent plea John will never hear.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> * A stanza from the French Poem "Clair de lune" by Paul Verlaine, it's English translation is:  
>  **Your soul is a select landscape**  
>  **Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go**  
>  **Playing the lute and dancing and almost**  
>  **Sad beneath their fantastic disguises.**
> 
> Also, if you happened to pick up any new vocabulary, I hope it is the word nincompoop, it is honestly one of my favourite words (alongside teetotaler and tomfoolery, but I digress). 
> 
> And lastly, I still have problems writing smut scenes, so please leave comments telling me how I should improve. 
> 
> Cheers,  
> Terra


End file.
